


He saw the whole of the moon

by ApocalypseAn



Category: Men's Basketball RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:15:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28650378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApocalypseAn/pseuds/ApocalypseAn
Summary: Cold rapid handsdraw back one by onethe bandages of darkI open my eyesstillI am livingat the centerof a wound still fresh
Relationships: Elgin Baylor/Jerry West
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	He saw the whole of the moon

**Author's Note:**

> For some context, this takes place after 1969 finals game 7, when the Logo won the only ever final MVP on the losing team, and Elgin left every ounce of his spirit and soul on that basketball floor. They came that close, but still couldn't get over the Celtics.

Limping out the Forum, Elgin sees the moon. Moonlight travels through the haze and dust, platinum-gold, snow-esque, lightening Los Angeles, reminding him of Andy Warhol’s silver decorated studio, Mount Rainer’s treacherous, snowy summit, the howling, everlasting storm and wind in Minneapolis, and the snow-clad cornfield in Idaho, where the team plane rushed, rolled, bounced, eventually stopped.

His knees ache and burn, inundated by the moonlight, to a level of stupefaction. He finally gets to admit his hang time, when he could dexterously use the back of the rim, score from every corner on the court, and knock down each shot without effort, as well as his dreams and glory, has left him behind, like snow melting in Los Angeles’ warm weather. “We’ll get ’em tomorrow” - We’ll never get them.

His soul detaches, floating in the midair, close to the moon, overlooking his own wreckage, and the sorrowing Los Angeles. The moon exists for no reason – two planets accidentally collide; their debris accidentally enters the orbit. Homo sapiens exist for no reason either – bacteria emerge from the primitive ocean, sperm and egg incidentally fuse, mother decides not to take an abortion. There is no meaning in life.

He feels nonchalant, probably amused and relieved. He squanders his best time trying to refute and rebel against the absurdity of life, winning certain battles, and losing more. Sisyphus pushes the immense boulder up a hill only for it to roll down every time it neared the top, Don Quixote takes his infructuous efforts to revive chivalry, and they take the Boston Celtics, the Goliathan franchise year by year. Civil Right Act passed, Malcolm X assassinated, MLK Jr. assassinated. His resistance only constitutes a more insurmountable, unfathomable level of absurdity, so capitulation might be a better maneuver than revolution.

He drives back to Beverly Hills, like him biting Barbara’s hook and trudging up a hill to her poky house at the age of 19. This time the pallid moon and faint neon lights see him off.

As a light sleeper, he sleeps half-awake, dreaming of the cops’ dazzlingly pale skin, the thwack of father’s strap, Columbia’s gasping wails; Johnny cracking up, crumbling, sigh unheard; racially segregated Charleston, West Virginia, denied access to the hotel, roaring crowds, Rod’s voice breaking through the clamor – baby, don’t play; the dead silence in the locker room in Boston Garden, Bob Short’s hysterical screams; and tears culminating in Jerry’s eyes, shattered, he knows Jerry will not let them fall.

Time freezes and flows, carrying no weight, existing out of nowhere. His life passes by; the game, widely perceived as the but only significant part of his identity and existence, takes merely a minor portion. He raises his hand, wanting to wipe out Jerry’s tears, then grazes something – oddly predictable.

He didn’t pull down the shutters, the enduring smog, haze, and light contamination of Los Angeles streaming into his room, dyeing Jerry’s pallid face half translucent, half deadly grey. Wildfire burns in his blue eyes – while Elgin is color blind, he speculates Jerry’s eyes are heavenly blue. He subconsciously turns around, can’t look at Jerry, too scared to confront Jerry’s pain, anger, torturing, and frenzy. Jerry, seemingly irritated by his detachment, pinches his jaw, forces him to turn back, and bites his lips.

That first took place almost ten years ago.

1961, St. Louis. After a four-game losing streak, he lay on the bed, thinking about nothing, letting Jerry disappear into his tormented, cataclysmic world. Jerry ghostly drifted to his side, bent over, and kissed him – more like biting.

He wasn’t supposed to fuck his teammate. He didn't want to get overly intimate. He had an aversion to body fluids and filth. He made love with Jerry.

Neither of them came or even felt pleasure. He was compromising, so was Jerry. He sensed Jerry’s body clenching in pain, randomly wondered how hedgehogs have intercourse while not wounding their partners, couldn’t help chuckle, paused, and asked Jerry how hedgehogs have sex. Jerry drew up, curled around him, and started laughing, kissing him in between, this time soft like a floating feather.

He found it too hilarious to continue, pulled out, dragged Jerry to the bathroom for a shower. He was about to call room service for cleaning, Jerry stopped him, so he didn’t persist, something he rarely did. They lay on Jerry’s bed, he heard himself breathing in and out, then bedspring creaking, Jerry turning over, pressing into his chest, hair grazing his neck, an infinitesimal, nearly undetectable drop of tear soaking into the skin of his collarbone.

From then on, when switching to the same room on the road, they have sex. A few months or years after, even for home games, Jerry will sometimes visit Beverly Hills. He may also go to Jerry’s apartment. They have given each other their house keys, but still ring the doorbell each time, so he has almost forgotten Jerry has his key.

Jerry leans to unbutton him. He stops Jerry, and explains. “I’m tired. Not this time.”

Jerry stares at him, the wildfire in his eyes burning out, dimming. Silence weaves itself into the nuanced spaces of everything around them. A raven croaks, cacophonous caw slicing the mingling of moonlight, light contamination, and haze. A moth bumps against the window, falls into the groove, leaving a trace of scales.

Jerry’s lips shiver. He bites his lips, doesn’t say anything for a while, and finally gets his words back. “Are you thinking about... retiring?”

He inquests Elgin syllable by syllable, voice coming deep from his soul.

Elgin doesn’t want to lie to Jerry, so he just nods, acquiescing.

Jerry grabs Elgin’s arm, and pleads in urgency. “Stay with me.” His voice trails off. “And… for me.”

Elgin withdraws his hand calmly and looks out of the window. The moon dims before dawn, the shadows of craters about to swallow the refracted sunlight.

He tells Jerry, we once saw the whole of the moon. 

——FIN——

**Author's Note:**

> Elgin and Jerry are probably two of the most underappreciated basketball players imo. For those interested in this ship, I would recommend reading Elgin's Hang Time and the Logo's West by West, both honest, well-written, and inspiring memoirs, especially the former. You would fall in love with Elgin's elegant writing and sense of humor immediately. It would be a pity for their affection and stories to be lost in time.


End file.
